


Stuck in the Middle with You

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (but they’re in Shanghai instead of Saitama because YOI doesn’t map exactly to the real world), 2014 World Figure Skating Championships, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Pre-Canon, Trapped In A Closet, World Figure Skating Championships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 07:56:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20635748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: He is locked in a closet, with a stranger, in the Shanghai Oriental Sports Center, with probably only an hour before he has to go out and defend his world title.Well, there is only one of those things Viktor can address immediately.“Hello, I’m Viktor Nikiforov.  What’s your name?”Viktor and Yuuri get locked in a closet.





	Stuck in the Middle with You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [La_Temperanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/gifts).

> Written for the 2019 Victuuri Summer Loving gift exchange! The request was for the 'trapped together' trope. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> The title is, of course, a reference to the Stealers Wheel song.

If anyone had _asked_, Viktor would have said he was looking for a bit of peace and quiet. Well, to be honest, he probably _wouldn’t have_ if anyone had actually asked. He isn’t the sort of person that is supposed to _need_ peace and quiet, or anything else in order to compete at his best. He is expected to just go out and perform miracles no matter the circumstances. That is the legend; that is what he does.

And he _could_ do it, that isn’t the issue, he would be fine if he stayed with the coaches and other competitors to keep warming up. At this point, there isn’t much that could derail a Viktor Nikiforov performance. There isn’t much that could inspire one, either.

But Yakov is in a foul mood; he had spent the previous afternoon and much of the morning yelling at Mila for switching up the jumps in her short program—Viktor couldn’t see what the problem was, she was in first place and had come within a hair's breadth of the world record, after all. But it meant that Yakov was extra shouty about Viktor’s routines too, and with all the media speculation over whether he is going to win his fourth world title and Chris too busy with his new man of the moment to provide a decent distraction, Viktor needed a minute.

Just a minute. A little bit of space to not have to smile and pretend to be perfect and fine and happy that everybody just _expects_ him to win again.

Because he _can_ do it, and he will. He wants to, too. He has devoted his life to his sport, and no one does that if they do not want to win. But the ceaseless assumptions and expectations wear on him—it is hard to surprise your audience if they _expect_ to be blown away, if they _expect_ nothing less than a masterful performance every time. 

But there is nothing he can do about the growing complacency of the audience now. Perhaps next season. Hopefully, then he’ll be able to come up with something that would surprise everyone again. All he can do now is focus and concentrate on the last competition of _this_ season.

Viktor makes his way through the bowels of the Shanghai Oriental Sports Center unmolested. There are advantages to being Viktor Nikiforov, and one of them is that figure skating event organizers tended to let him be, even when he is outside the designated areas. Yakov, on the other hand, has no such reticence, and Viktor ducks through an unmarked door at the distant sound of a familiar voice shouting his name.

The room he steps into is pitch dark as the door closes behind him with a click.

“No, wait, don’t-”

The voice that floats out of the inky void that now surrounds him is soft and urgent, and so completely unexpected that Viktor scrambles backward, sneakers slipping on the unfinished concrete as he shoves against the door, working the handle fruitlessly as he pushes.

“-close the door,” the voice trails off. “It locks.” 

Viktor gives the door one last defiant shove before he sags against it. The voice was right. It was locked. He is trapped inside. The part of his brain that liked to sound like Yakov shouts at him, fruitlessly telling him how much of a fool he is.

The tiny part of him that remembers what it is like to be a child is torn between hoping Yakov never finds out he was this stupid and hoping someone would hurry up and find him, would open the door and let the light back in. It is very dark in the closet; Viktor can’t see his hand in front of his face.

The greater part of him, the part that is an adult and a champion figure skater, just desperately hopes that someone will come and find him before he was due to skate. Firstly, because it would be massively embarrassing to have to forfeit because he got locked in a closet, but primarily because he has a title to defend and he can’t do that from in here.

“Um, are you alright?” 

Viktor starts. He wouldn’t say he’d forgotten about the other person, but whoever they were they’d been shoved in the mental box marked ‘not immediately important’ in the seconds Viktor had spent frantically rattling the door handle after he had realized he was _stuck_ in a _storage closet_. 

“I don’t suppose you have a cell phone,” asks the voice.

Viktor shakes his head because no, he doesn’t have his phone, he’d left it in his bag with Yakov. Which is starting to seem like a foolish decision now, even though he never looks at his phone just before a competition. 

“Ah, no. Sorry,” he says, once he realizes that there’s no way the other person can see him in the inky depths of their shared prison.

There’s a muffled squeak, then, “that’s okay. Well, I mean it isn’t okay, we’re stuck here. But I don’t have one either. It isn’t your fault.” The words are a bit jumbled, all in a rush, and the speaker’s voice sounds a bit raw, hoarse like he had been shouting or laughing or crying for a long time.

Viktor takes a deep breath. Yakov is always telling him he needs to be less impulsive and think things through, and he knows he’s clever, so if they can’t call for help, he might as well try and think of another solution. (Of course, Yakov would also probably say that the time for critical thinking was _before_ you got locked in a closet, Vitya, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.)

He is locked in a closet, with a stranger, in the Shanghai Oriental Sports Center, with probably only an hour before he has to go out and defend his world title. They have no means with which to call for help, and as far as he can tell the corridor this closet connects to is sparsely traveled.

Well, there is only one of those things Viktor can address immediately.

“Hello, I’m Viktor Nikiforov. What’s your name?”

“Oh, um,” there is a pause, and the rustling sound of nylon on nylon fabric makes Viktor think that whoever it is is nervous, shifting back and forth. “I’m Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Oh, from Japan! I love the step sequence in your free program this year. Why do you front-load your jumps so much? You’re really hurting your technical score.” For a brief moment, Viktor forgets he’s locked in a closet with an impending competition creeping ever closer. He’s never actually met Katsuki Yuuri but he’s found the other man's artistry compelling for years. It’s a crime that they’ve never been on a podium together.

There’s a high-pitched squeak and more rustling, and a thump followed by a series of metallic rattles. “Are you alright?” Viktor asks, brow furrowed as he squints fruitlessly in the direction of the noise. 

There’s a series of what might be affirmative whimpers, or might be the sound of someone who just had the miscellaneous and possibly heavy contents of a storage shelf dropped on them. Viktor takes a cautious step forward, arms outstretched.

When he reaches the shelf, twists of cool wire shifting gently backward as he pushes, he drops down into a crouch and waves his hands until he finds an arm, then a shoulder. Before he can work his way up to Katsuki’s face to check for an injury the man flinches back, away from Viktor’s touch if not out of his reach.

“I’m okay! I’m fine, I promise.” The words are a gasp, still have that raw, hoarse quality Viktor noted earlier. Katsuki doesn’t exactly sound fine, but he doesn’t sound hurt either so Viktor lets his arm drop.

There’s a lull. The closet is still pitch dark—Viktor takes a moment to wonder if he should check for a light switch, but then figures that since Katsuki had been here first he had probably already tried—but there’s a thin sliver of light coming under the door and his eyes have started to adjust. He still can’t see much, but from where he is next to Katsuki he can just make out the other man’s profile, glasses and messy bangs dropping down in front of his eyes.

It isn’t quiet. Viktor can hear the crowd in the stadium above them, the thousands of people clapping and cheering for the earlier groups of skaters, even through the thick concrete. The air conditioning system kicks on with a hum and a blast of cool air from an unseen vent hits the back of his neck. Katsuki is breathing loudly, almost as though he already skated his program. The sound is heavy and labored, as though each breath requires the utmost concentration.

Viktor does not want to be locked in this closet and he most certainly does not want to be locked in this closet with someone dealing with emotions. Viktor—he has been told multiple times and by multiple people—does not do well with other people’s emotions.

But he also isn’t a total asshole, no matter how Chris may tease him for his interpersonal ineptitude, and Katsuki sounds like he is in genuine distress. Viktor cautiously reaches out a hand and pats around until he finds what he thinks is Katsuki’s knee.

“I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m sorry,” Katsuki says, flinching back. Viktor lets his hand drop. Whatever is wrong he doesn’t want to make it worse.

“I’m sorry, I just, I don’t,” Katsuki stops, lets whatever he was going to say trail off and die in the darkness. Viktor debates with himself. He doesn’t want to distress Katsuki by asking him for answers he doesn’t want to give, but he is unbearably curious. Why is one of his competitors hiding in a closet, seemingly emotionally undone, less than an hour before he is due to compete?

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But I’d like to help if I can.” Viktor hears himself say the words and is surprised to find he means them. Which, okay. That’s unexpected. Perhaps it is easier, the thought of helping someone else with their problems than trying to face his own. He has little experience with the former and a terrible track record with the latter so he probably won’t have much luck, but he can try.

There’s something that might be a laugh from Katsuki. “I’m fine. It’s just, sometimes I get nervous before I skate? You know?” There’s definitely a laugh. “No, you don’t.”

No, Viktor doesn’t. Viktor just won his second Olympic title last month. He hasn’t been nervous about how he will do in a competition in longer than he can remember—he knows what he can do and that he can do it. And even if he could dig back into his memories and pull up the faint recollections of his earliest competition nerves, whatever this is that Katsuki is dealing with sounds a bit more than that.

“I’m sure you’ll do great. Your artistry is second to none.” The reassurance sounds feeble even to his own ears but it’s all he can think of to say as he tries to remember Katsuki’s previous competition performances. No Worlds or Olympic podiums, never made it to the GPF, but Japan’s top men's singles skater with a handful of national titles and a boatload of success on the Challenger circuit. And Viktor’s seen him skate—he’s very, very good. If he could nail down a few more advanced technical elements he could be a real threat.

Katsuki lets out another one of those gasping laughs. “I’m locked in a closet. I won’t even be able to skate. You won’t be able to skate. Viktor!”

Viktor decides right then that he quite likes hearing Katsuki Yuuri say his name. He quietly sets that revelation aside to examine sometime when he isn’t locked in a closet at a major international sporting event. 

“Not unless someone finds us in time, no.”

“But you have to skate! You have to defend your title,” Katsuki is grasping his arm now, his fingers digging in with the same urgency Viktor can hear in his voice. He almost laughs but guesses that might not go over well.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with your chance to take the title away from me?” he teases. He does laugh then, at Katsuki’s outraged gasp. As though it is preposterous to suggest that anyone would even _want_ to defeat him.

Viktor knows that every skater in this arena wants to beat him. Every skater wants to win, and winning against him is an even greater prize than a gold medal for how rarely it happens. He also knows that none of his competitors will be besting him tonight, barring unforeseen circumstances. Such as the one he finds himself in right now.

So, it could happen.

He hopes it doesn’t, though.

“You can’t,” Katsuki says once he’s finished sputtering from his sheer outrage at Viktor’s statement. “You can’t stay locked in here. You have to go out and defend your title.” His words are firm, calm and steady like Viktor hasn’t heard the entire time they’ve been stuck together. He takes a deep breath. “And I have to represent my country, too. I can’t let all the people who support me down.”

Viktor smiles, a pleased and what he hopes is a reassuring smile, even though Katsuki can’t see it. It’s always more fun when his competitors give their best, it always pushes him to be better, and even if Katsuki doesn’t have the technical content to challenge him for the gold this season that kind of determination sounds like someone who isn’t done pushing himself yet.

“Great,” Viktor says, “let’s get out of here.” He feels around until he finds Katsuki’s hand and gives it a squeeze. This time Katsuki squeezes back.

“Um, do you have a plan?”

The spread of warmth Viktor had felt from the previous emotional solidarity flickers out and dies. No, he does not have a plan because he is an idiot who forgot his cell phone and also got locked in a closet. Mila and Yura are going to laugh their asses off, then make fun of him for this, _forever_.

But Katsuki doesn’t need to know how incompetent Viktor actually is, especially since the man actually seems to admire him and Viktor has never been one to let down his fans. “What have you tried so far?” he asks.

“Just banging on the door and shouting. It didn’t work though. Obviously.” Katsuki’s tone is drifting back into the mumbled and self-recriminatory so Viktor barges on.

“Well, now there’s two of us, so we’ll be louder. And hopefully someone will have noticed us missing by now, so they’ll be looking. I’m sure Yakov has called out the search dogs by now.” 

He tries to make a joke of it but realistically Yakov probably _has_ summoned any and all forces at his disposal to track Viktor down. They really are cutting it close if they want to skate—Viktor knows he’s in the last group and he thinks Katsuki is in the second to last, but he doesn’t want to ask lest he cause the other man to go back to his previous upset state.

“Okay. If you think it will work.” Katsuki’s voice sounds more hopeful than the situation probably warrants, but Viktor is glad that he doesn’t seem so despondent anymore.

“Of course it will work,” Viktor replies, infusing his words with all the confidence he usually reserves for talking Yakov into letting him do something risky and daring with his routines, or charming photographers into capturing his best angles. It had better work; he doesn’t have any other ideas.

They bang on the door until their fists are bruised and sore, shouting until their voices are hoarse. The door rattles under the onslaught but there is no response. Viktor can feel his arm strength and the minutes until the competition slipping away. It is only when it belatedly occurs to Viktor that they are making so much noise that they wouldn’t be able to hear anyone coming to rescue them that the door is yanked outward and he and Katsuki stumble, awkward and blinking, into the hallway.

Yakov, a longhaired man Viktor recognizes as Katsuki’s coach Celestino Cialdini, a pair of ISU officials, and a man from the stadium stand in a semicircle in front of them, faces displaying a spectrum from disapproval to nigh-apoplectic rage. Viktor puts on his most eager smile and draws himself up straight.

“Yakov! You found us!”

Yakov doesn’t look at him. “Katsuki, go. You have five minutes.”

Katsuki squeaks as one of the ISU officials holds up a clipboard and a timer. Viktor doesn’t envy him. Five minutes to prepare for the group warm-up is not great, and Katsuki doesn’t even have his skates on.

“Thank you for finding us. Goodbye. Thank you.” He takes off down the hallway, followed by his Cialdini and the ISU woman. 

“Good luck,” Viktor calls after him, “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thank you!”

Viktor watches until Katsuki disappears around a corner, then turns back to Yakov.

“Vitya,” Yakov says, shaking his head, “what are you doing. Messing with your competitors really is beneath you.” He’s switched to Russian in deference to their continued audience, but Viktor doesn’t much appreciate the gesture.

“I didn’t do anything; it was an accident. And he got stuck first.”

Yakov is still scowling, but that is pretty much his default expression so who knows what he is really thinking. “You need to get ready for your performance,” he finally says.

Viktor knows this can’t be the end of things, but he has a title to defend and he can’t do that from this hallway. He’ll take the out, for now.

As they head back to the staging area Viktor turns to the stadium employee. “You should really get that door fixed. It’s a hazard.” 

Yakov sighs.

* * *

Yuuri fidgets nervously as he watches the digital numbers on the elevator display tick slowly down. He turns the disk of metal over and over in his pocket, running his fingers over the slightly raised design. It’s a bittersweet feeling—it certainly isn’t the medal he wanted. But, as Celestino has reminded him countless times since he finished his free program, a small bronze in the free skate is no mean feat. 

And the smile Viktor had given him when they’d handed him the medal went a long way to soothe the shame of his abysmal short program performance. (And the horrible embarrassment of panicking and crying while locked in a closet with his idol.) 

The elevator halts and the doors slide open after another two floors. Viktor Nikiforov steps in, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise before a wide smile spreads across his face. “Katsuki Yuuri. I’ve been hoping I’d get to see you before you left. How are you? No lasting ill effects, I hope?”

“Ah, I’m fine, thank you,” Yuuri mumbles. If anything, this is even worse than being trapped and panicking in a dark closet with his idol. Now he can see Viktor’s face, and Viktor can see his.

“I’m glad,” Viktor says, and at least seems like he means it. The elevator ticks down the floors and Yuuri is filled with the conflicting wishes for it to go faster and also never reach its destination.

“Um, congratulations,” Yuuri says because if he is getting another shot at talking to Viktor then he should at least try and make an effort to have this time go better than the last—a low bar, to say the least. “On winning. Your programs were beautiful.” He internally cringes at the banality of the statement; Viktor probably hears as such every day. But at least it’s honest, and not overly personal.

“Thank you, I’m glad to hear you think so. I feel I should also congratulate you, you gave quite the impressive performances, especially under the circumstances.” 

Yuuri opens his mouth to argue but shuts it again at the look on Viktor’s face. He looks genuinely earnest, surprisingly open and awkward for a man who has dazzled the press and his fans with his elegant charm since he was in his teens. Yuuri just nods and mutters a thank you. 

There's a brief pause, and as the elevator ticks down floors _four, three, two_, Viktor blurts out “would you like to go to dinner?” 

Yuuri’s head jerks up in surprise, his eyes meeting Viktor’s to find a hopeful expression. Wide-eyed, Yuuri nods.

“On a date,” Viktor says, as though he isn’t certain Yuuri understood.

Yuuri nods harder. “Yes!” he says, just to be clear.

Viktor’s face breaks into a grin like Yuuri has never seen before, not even when Viktor won the World Championship for the fourth time. “Amazing!” he says, his eyes sparkling like stars. As the elevator doors slide open to the lobby, he reaches out to take Yuuri’s hand. “Yuuri, do you like poodles?”

Yuuri can’t help his delighted laugh.


End file.
